He came to the house, to whose walls stretched the carpet of turf. A low verandah, reached by a flight of steps, and communicating with the interior by means of French windows, now closely barred, extended not quite the breadth of the building. Masking its end rose a tall clipped yew. Behind this he crept, and a low window, whose sash he lifted, thanks to Minna’s previous unbarring, admitted him into the house. It was a tiny chamber, used by Minna as a dark-room during an intermittent photographic fever. Outside this was a heavily carpeted staircase, up which Hugh stole noiselessly. The handle turned smoothly beneath his grasp, and he found himself at last in his wife’s presence. The large room was lit only by the leaping flames of the fire, that threw quick flashes on the richly curtained bed and the luxurious appointments of a wealthy woman’s bedchamber. In a long chair before the fire, the tips of fur-lined slippers thrust on bare feet, resting on the fender, lay Minna. She wore a rich dressing-gown, with lace at throat and wrists. Her dark hair clustered about her shoulders. A delicate odour of toilette-washes and powder hung on the warmth of the room. Hugh stopped for a moment on the threshold, with a little catch at his breath. The subtle charm of the woman’s shrine stole gratefully over him. After all, it was sweet to have the right of such intimacy. He took off his dripping ulster and laid it aside before coming forward. Then he stooped and kissed her. “Oh! how wet you are!” she cried, with a little grimace, rubbing her cheek with her handkerchief. “Do come and dry yourself. You will find your slippers in the secret drawer, as usual.” She handed him a key which she took from her dressing-gown pocket, and while he was changing his wet boots: “Well?” she said. “What news?” “Bad. Your father will not consent, because I am a Christian. We shall have to elope.” “Then you haven’t told him all?” “No. I thought it wiser. There seemed no necessity. It will be better for us to get married again--publicly.” He drew up an armchair by her side, close to the fire, and, leaning forward, warmed himself appreciatively. “It’s an infernal night. You don’t know how sweet and cosy it is here.” “It was kind of you to come,” she said, with cold politeness. Her tone chilled the reviving glow of his imagination, which already was beginning to picture gentle possibilities of their married life. He remained silent for some time. When he spoke again, it was in less genial accents. “I am afraid, Minna, that in marrying me you have unwittingly made a tremendous sacrifice.” “Not more than most women, I suppose.” “Unfortunately, yes.” With much tact and delicacy he put her in possession of all the details of his recent interview. She said not a word until he had finished, but clenched her fingers on the arms of her chair and looked rigidly into the fire. “I had an awful horror of this,” she said, in a toneless voice.